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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26961181">Meeting of Minds</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl'>TolkienGirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [309]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(not on Maedhros), Christmas, Christmas Eve, Conversations, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Maedhros is curious about Wachiwi, Mithrim Christmas, Truces, Wachiwi has a Crush, Wachiwi is curious about Maedhros</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:02:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26961181</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wachiwi knew enough to distrust Maedhros—but knowing Fingon, too, made her want to understand him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fingon | Findekáno &amp; Fingon's Wife, Fingon | Findekáno &amp; Maedhros | Maitimo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [309]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Meeting of Minds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is set during chapter of 8 of "with someone who no longer is" ... read that first!<br/>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583630/chapters/65784145</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first thing that Fingon told her about his cousin Maedhros was that he was a farmer. Fingon had recovered from both hunger and the cold, then, and they were preparing to move south.</p><p>“Cows are very interesting animals,” he had said politely. Wachiwi had nursed him back to life, seen his tears sting his raw skin, and heard him call for his dead mother. But when he spoke to her under the warming sky, it was always with formal manners, the like of which she hadn’t seen since she shared a meal once with Thingol and his wife. “My—my cousins lived on a farm, and did not keep many. They had more horses than cattle. Horses are useful in a number of ways. But I learned to milk. Perhaps that may be useful.”</p><p>“Did you?”</p><p>“Yes. Mae—my cousin Maedhros taught me.”</p><p>Finrod and Galadriel are the name of Fingon’s cousins who are here, those with the corn-silk hair. Maedhros, therefore, must be one of the ones who are spoken of only in hushed voices, or who are not spoken of at all.</p><p>“If we must, we shall put you to work,” Wachiwi had said, then, greatly amused. “But most of these are steers.”</p><p>“Oh,” Fingon stuttered. “Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>The next Wachiwi heard of Maedhros was that the silver timepiece Fingon carried had been his. Wachiwi liked metalwork—she had no skill at it, herself, but she loved to trace anything intricate with her fingers. It was good to understand how others told the tiny secrets of their hearts through tools.</p><p>She had seen the glint of the watch in Fingon’s pocket, but once she came upon him when he was winding it.</p><p>“Beautiful,” she said.</p><p>Fingon had nodded, his mouth smiling; his eyes low. “My cousin gave it to me for…safekeeping.”</p><p>“Maedhros?” She remembered the name.</p><p>“Yes. He was very—when we lived in the city, he always dressed very fine. Coat and hat, rings and cane. But he liked the watch best.” Fingon had paused as if he was afraid of saying too much, but then he held the watch out for Wachiwi to see. She had cupped it in the palm of her hand. It was spectacular. The eight points reminded her of how the sun struck on days when the clouds revealed its lines of light.</p><p>She had said, “I thought he was a farmer.”</p><p> </p><p>Maedhros, as it turned out, was many things—more than a city <em>gentleman</em>, as the easterners called their own, and certainly more than a farmer. Too many things for Turgon, it seemed. Turgon kept away from the room where he lay with a face almost as hard as his wall. Wachiwi did not know all Turgon’s hurts. She knew enough to distrust Maedhros—but knowing Fingon, too, made her want to understand him.</p><p>It wasn’t only Fingon, of course, who knew Maedhros. Estrela knew him, and seemed to care for him deeply. Wachiwi cared for Estrela. She had spent a good many hours, now, with the woman, since they both took an interest in Sticks and Frog.</p><p>Wachiwi was not shy. She kept her thoughts to herself when it was wise to do so. She asked questions, also, when it was wise to do so.</p><p>“I am meeting Maedhros this evening,” Wachiwi said to her, once they were out of the reach of the children’s ears. They were dragging long lengths of thread through a small block of precious beeswax, strengthening them for use in the bright strands of winter berries. “Russandol, that is.”</p><p>“Oh,” said Estrela. “That is…I think that is good.”</p><p>“I hope so.” It was interesting to speak English with someone who had not been born with it either; although they were comfortable with the strange and sharp-edged tongue, Wachiwi felt she could be confident that Estrela would not notice if she halted, searching for a word. “He is Fingon’s friend.”</p><p>“<em>You</em> are Fingon’s friend,” said Estrela. “And so…you might be angry with—with Maedhros?”</p><p>“I don’t know him.”</p><p>Estrela draped the threads across her palm. “Thank you,” she said. Wachiwi was touched by this—by how it acknowledged a gift not spoken at all, and so she asked her question.</p><p>“Who is he?”</p><p>Estrela’s single eye, dark and deep, considered her. “He is young,” said Estrela. “Like we all are.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please forgive me,” said Fingon, “For lecturing. I don’t meant to. It is only that—it is best if you don’t touch him, or ask about—about his hand, and—”</p><p>“Fingon.”</p><p>“Yes?” The way his head turned so quickly, that he might look full at her though they were only walking side by side for the length of the hall, made Wachiwi weak at the knees. She liked the feeling.</p><p>“I will be quiet and good, and I will keep <em>my</em> hands to myself.”</p><p>“Thank you,” said Fingon. His face was flushed. “I…I thought it might help him to meet a friendly stranger. We hope he may join us for Christmas dinner tomorrow, but it—it feels like an impossible leap.”</p><p>“Because he does not want to see everyone?”</p><p>“Because I think he does not want to be seen.”</p><p>Wachiwi thought of Estrela. Her scars. The way Mithrim’s people, though friendly, avoided looking at her face. Scars did not trouble Wachiwi—her mother had survived the pox before her daughters were born—but she knew how hard it could be to be marked and set apart.</p><p><em>Is not the earth scarred? </em>Not enough men and women considered <em>that</em>.  </p><p>Fingon opened the door and let Wachiwi enter ahead of him. Maglor and Gwindor were there already. Wachiwi was not well acquainted with either of them, but she found Maglor to be pettish and delicate in his interactions with the children. Gwindor was gruff and frank and reminded her a little of Haleth.</p><p>She liked Gwindor better.</p><p>In the broad bed in the middle of the room, Maedhros was sitting upright. His faded blue shirt hung loosely, though it was buttoned to the collar. The column of his throat was where starvation showed clearest: the hollows between the tendons should not groove so deep. But Wachiwi could not pretend to be fascinated by his shirtfront or his blanketed legs (unusually long though they were) or the lines of his neck. Her gaze was drawn to, and arrested by, his face.</p><p>Even on the verge of death he was uncommonly handsome—according to the standards of his people, that was, since his skin was almost the color of bone and thus too pale for Wachiwi’s taste. He had wide, luminous eyes and a nose that was strong and decisive, even if it was bridged by the dark river of a small scar.</p><p>His hair, straggling almost to his chin, was as red as the veins of copper that webbed the northern rocks.</p><p>“Hello, Wachiwi,” said Maedhros. He pronounced her name perfectly.</p><p>“Hello, Maedhros.”</p><p>“You may take the other chair,” said Fingon. “Mai—Maedhros, Wachiwi has been helping your children with decorations for the morrow.”</p><p>“Your children?” Wachiwi asked, with a smile. “I thought they were Estrela’s.”</p><p>“If you have spent much time with them,” said Maedhros, returning the smile with more charm than she would have expected a man in his condition to be capable of, “You know very well that they are all their own. Estrela is their oldest friend, however. They’re very good to me.”</p><p>“They speak of you often.”</p><p>“Goodness, I daren’t ask.” But he was looking at Fingon when he said it, and she was surprised that he had taken her private meaning.</p><p>Wachiwi decided to be a little bolder. “I hear we might have you with us at dinner tomorrow.”</p><p>Maglor looked up, at that, from where he’d been busily scribbling in a leatherbound book. Maedhros’ eyes returned to hers.</p><p>“I hear that, also.”</p><p>“I do not understand Christmas,” she said. “But there is a tree come inside.”</p><p>“What a wonder. Fingon, did you know about the tree?”</p><p>“I saw it this morning,” Fingon said. Gwindor muttered his assent.</p><p>“How could I refuse,” said Maedhros. “And you, Wachiwi. If not with Christmas, what are you busy with?”</p><p>“With gardening, at times, though I have never been much of a gardener.” She did not want to embarrass Fingon, but a little gentle teasing might not go amiss. “And I make certain that your doctor sits for his meals and swallows his food.”</p><p>Maedhros’ brows drifted upwards a little. His smile was softer; less charming, but more real.</p><p>“There is a good deal to do,” Fingon sputtered. “And there are no deleterious effects—nothing long-lasting, at least—from eating on one’s feet.”</p><p>“But you are dreadfully important,” said Maglor, from the other chair. He did not look up from his work. Wachiwi narrowed her eyes at him, wondering whether he was sincere or not.</p><p>“Thank you,” said Maedhros. <em>He</em> sounded sincere, but of course, he must be skilled at that. Skilled at hiding the truth, since he had tricked his own family so well. “Wachiwi. I am grateful to know that my doctor is not merely transferring my ailments to himself.”</p><p>“Fingon is sturdier than he looks,” said Wachiwi, which yielded the desired effect of Fingon’s cheeks blooming red again.</p><p>“I like to think I am sturdy,” he mumbled. “If not always a man of the world…”</p><p>“I don’t know what <em>man</em> <em>of the world is</em>,” she said. “But I gave you those braids so that you could always be proud. If you wished.”</p><p>He grinned. She was glad to be sitting down. No fear of weak knees, then.</p><p>“Fingon is too kind to always be proud,” said Maedhros. “I hope the braids will remind him that he is the best among us, if that is indeed their purpose. But if you do not garden, Wachiwi, do you hunt? Or were you a rancher? Fingon has told me a little of Haleth’s band.”</p><p><em>And Doriath</em>, she thought suddenly. Haleth was very cautious with her words, but she trusted Wachiwi. Before they had parted Haleth had warned her, in plain though sparing language, that the Feanorians were known to Thingol—and not kindly.</p><p><em>If he recovers</em>, Haleth had said, speaking of Maedhros, <em>I do not know if this fort shall remain peaceable for you. Thingol said that his father was a thief. We know that all such men are thieves. Be careful, Wachiwi. Even our friends can change.  </em></p><p>“Fingon knew more about cattle than I,” she said now, returning to Maedhros’ question, and shaking off the weight of the remembrance. “He said that you taught him to milk cows, long ago. Sadly we had none to milk, among our herd, but that was the first I learned of you.”</p><p>She had not meant to say <em>that</em> aloud. They were all looking at her now—Gwindor and Maglor and Fingon, who might, she feared, be hurt by her honesty.</p><p>But Maedhros chuckled softly. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Fingon had a good grasp, I recall. It was a trick of ours to shoot milk into the barn cat’s mouth, but he wouldn’t do it.”</p><p>“Why not?” Wachiwi asked. Little Fingon, in his city clothes with close-cut hair—and this Maedhros-Russandol, unscarred—what had they been like, at heart?</p><p>“I don’t remember this at all,” said Fingon, clearly lying.</p><p>Maedhros’ eyebrows twitched again. “He said he thought it was disrespectful to the cow. I swear Maggie didn’t mind, <em>cano</em>.”</p><p>“Lord,” said Maglor, shuddering. “I hated milking.”</p><p>“You would,” Gwindor muttered, from his corner.</p><p>“It was a bad deed to name the cow <em>Maggie</em>,” Maedhros said, very solemnly. “We did not make the connection until too late.”</p><p>“<em>Some</em> of us did,” said Maglor.</p><p>Wachiwi swallowed her laugh.</p><p> </p><p>It was not difficult to talk to Maedhros, when he wanted to talk. That was what she learned from her visit. She did not stay too long; she had promised Fingon that she would be good. What she wanted to do, more than anything, was to ask the bedridden man a thousand questions—what had Fingon been like as a boy, and what had he wanted from the years stretching ahead?</p><p>
  <em>How did you hurt him, and are the hurts you bear enough to make you truly sorry?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Should I forgive you, for his sake?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“What do you think of him?” Fingon asked nervously, when they were down the hall again. He was coming to supper, and had promised to sit down.</p><p>Wachiwi wanted to take him in her arms, hold him fast by the braids she had woven. She had begun to imagine what his mouth would taste like.</p><p>She said, “I liked him.”</p>
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